Poems 2013

This blue moon is pink
and strange—
like a pearl stuck in a grey
tideless ocean. She doesn’t move.
We’re wet and tired and we face
the sky like shells turned upside down.
The sand grits out teeth.

Or perhaps we’re in the mountains—
Rhône, France. Maybe the Rockies
where trees and stones hide almost all the view.
The vast night is portioned into tiny pieces:
here a bit of star, there a cloud.
The moon sails by
too fast—

This is what happens in the wild—
wolves let loose in the forest,
the pink blue moon, inciting confusion.
I ask why we are here
and you reply: because she is beautiful.

This blue moon is not blue
at all.

When she fades (pearly craters
dimmed with sleep) we lie
on the ground like rocks turned over:
dark side up, hands threaded
with dream-dust.